


DTF

by provocative_envy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Roommates, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/pseuds/provocative_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <i>Theo’s like if Bill Nye and Ryan Gosling somehow defied all the genetic odds and just <b>fused together </b>via osmosis and went on to create their own fancy subspecies of the human race. He’s smart, and he’s studious, and he can do a decent pterodactyl impression if he’s riled up enough about the relative shittiness of the <b>Jurassic Park </b>sequels; he’s also, like, six-feet-three-inches of sandy brown hair and wide blue eyes and long, <b>long</b> legs and if Blaise had learned anything from watching a rain-soaked, backwoods, <b>Notebook</b>-era Ryan Gosling during the Great Bisexuality Revelation of 2012—it’s that he’s got a fucking <b>type</b> and that’s going to be a fucking <b>problem</b>.</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	DTF

* * *

 

**_(before)_ **

****

Amaretto tastes like shit.

Not literally—because that’s a stupid, _stupid_ comparison, hyperbole at both its finest and its most exaggerated worst—but Blaise thinks that if he poured a few ounces of vanilla extract into a bottle of lighter fluid he might actually be able to trick his new roommate into drinking it.

Maybe.

It’s been tough to get a read on the guy, to be fair; like, he’s tall and skinny and quiet and just generally pretty _weedy_ —and Blaise had never understood how that particular adjective could possibly be applied to a _person_ , not until he’d met Theodore _Please-Call-Me-Theo-I-Can’t-Handle-Anymore-Dora-the-Explorer-Jokes_ Nott and it had suddenly made a whole lot of sense. Not in a derogatory way—no, the guy’s _crazy_ nice, and super generous with his Easy Mac, and has this really deep, really _charming_ Southern drawl that had practically given Pansy and Daphne the collective fucking vapors the first time they’d heard him speak.

Theo’s basically—

Theo’s like if Bill Nye and Ryan Gosling somehow defied all the genetic odds and just _fused together_ via osmosis and went on to create their own fancy subspecies of the human race. He’s smart, and he’s studious, and he can do a decent pterodactyl impression if he’s riled up enough about the relative shittiness of the _Jurassic Park_ sequels; he’s also, like, six-feet-three-inches of sandy brown hair and wide blue eyes and long, _long_ legs and if Blaise had learned anything from watching a rain-soaked, backwoods, _Notebook_ -era Ryan Gosling during the Great Bisexuality Revelation of 2012—it’s that he’s got a fucking _type_ and that’s going to be a fucking _problem_.

Which is why when Pansy and Daphne and their douchebag _Gossip Girl_ reject lacrosse boyfriends—like, _Potter and Weasley_ , what the fuck is that even _about_ —knock on the door of Blaise and Theo’s dorm, carrying three cut-crystal bottles of amaretto and a thirty-rack of Natty Light—because, again, _Potter and Weasley_ —Blaise begins to seriously weigh the pros and cons of _poisoning_ his too-hot-for-his-own-good—and too- _straight_ -for-Blaise’s-own-good—roommate.

He reasons that it would save everyone involved a shit-ton of embarrassment in the long run.

Probably.

Not Daphne and Pansy—they’re impervious to shame—but it’s not _out of the question_ that Potter and Weasley might be able to catch on to Blaise’s mortifyingly obvious crush on Theo—

Whatever.

It doesn’t end up mattering.

Draco materializes out of fucking nowhere with a disapproving, frizzy-haired Hermione Granger in tow, the sleeves of his lame tweed hipster blazer _haphazardly_ rolled right up to their elbow patches, and proceeds to casually fucking Hulk-smash any remaining chance that Blaise had had of getting through the evening unscathed.

“Let’s play a game,” Draco suggests, slinging his arm around Granger’s shoulders and taking a swig of what smells like cotton candy flavored vodka from his monogrammed silver flask.

“What kind of game?” Theo asks, warily.

“A drinking game?” Potter and Weasley say in unison—because, again, _Potter and Weasley_.

“Mm,” Pansy hums, lacing her fingers with Potter’s and swinging their entwined hands; Potter looks down at her, immediately snorts at whatever terrifying expression she’s currently wearing, and then glances slyly in Blaise’s direction, which—explains a lot about their relationship, actually. “Hey, Daph, remember that _thing_ we were talking about in Spanish yesterday?”

Daphne, _bless her heart_ , blinks in confusion.

“I thought that was a secret?”

“Oops,” Pansy coos, leaning into Potter’s chest. “Never mind, then. Regardless—I’ve got a game we can play.”

Blaise rubs the center of his forehead; he isn’t really sure _how_ this is going to end badly for him, but he fucking knows that it is.

“ _Really_ , Pansy?”

Pansy plants a kiss on the underside of Potter’s jaw.

“Oh, yeah,” she replies, reaching for a bottle of amaretto.

“Well? What is it?” Draco drawls.

Pansy pauses, obviously for dramatic effect, and arches a perfectly plucked brown brow.

“ _Fuck, Marry, Kill_.”

 

* * *

 

**_(down)_ **

****

They start with celebrities.

“Steve Buscemi, Justin Bieber, and the fat guy from SNL,” Draco says to Pansy.

Granger wordlessly confiscates Draco’s flask and takes a large gulp.

“ _The fat guy from SNL_ ,” she mutters to herself. “ _Honestly_.”

“Shut up, Little House on the Prairie, this is a good one,” Pansy snaps, flapping her hand. She squints at Draco. “Am I allowed to duct tape any of their mouths shut?”

“No.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Pansy pouts, popping the tab on another can of Natty Light; Blaise feels a little like he’s at the redneck equivalent of a slumber party. “Fuck Buscemi, marry the SNL guy, kill Bieber.”

Potter almost spits out his beer.

“Wait, really? You’d fuck— _Buscemi_? What?”

Pansy just huffs in response, like she shouldn’t even have to explain her reasoning.

“Who’s next?”

And on it goes.

They get to teachers, and Daphne blithely informs them that she’d rather fuck Snape than kill him— _especially if phone sex counts, like, **his voice** , you know?_; then Weasley cheats and answers _McGonagall_ for every single category—which Blaise refuses on principle to even _vaguely_ contemplate; and Granger is such a fucking lightweight that she’s _wasted_ by the third round and freely admits to a very detailed sexual fantasy involving Lupin and the new lacrosse coach—some sidelined ex-goalie named Oliver Wood who Potter and Weasley have pretty bitterly decided to call ‘ _the crazy fuck’_ in retribution for all the suicides he makes them run.

“Lightning round!” Pansy eventually exclaims, a frankly disturbing gleam in her eye. “You can pick from anyone in the room, but no repeats!”

Blaise keeps his expression blank as he levels Pansy with a flatly unimpressed glare.

“ _Really_ , Pansy?” he asks again.

She winks, and he begins to mentally catalogue all the dangerous shit he’s going to steal from the chemistry lab to put in her fucking nail polish.

“I’ll go first,” she simpers. “I’d…marry Harry— _duh_ —and I’d kill Granger—again, _duh_ —and I’d fuck…Daphne, definitely.”

Weasley actually looks up at that.

“Get your—get your own,” he says blearily, throwing a proprietary arm around Daphne’s shoulders. “This Daphne’s _mine_.”

Daphne beams at him, which is gross, and nuzzles her face into his neck, which is grosser.

“I’d fuck _Ron_ , and I’d kill…Draco, I guess—sorry, Draco!—and I’d marry…Blaise. Yeah. He has Naomi Campbell cheekbones. We’d have _beautiful_ children,” she says wistfully.

In his periphery, Blaise can see Theo nodding, an unopened bottle of amaretto wedged in between his knees.

“Wait, this is supposed to be a lightning round!” Pansy interjects, clucking her tongue. “I’ll say fuck, marry, or kill, along with whoever’s turn it is, and then whoever they _answer with_ has to take their own turn.”

“These rules sound made up,” Granger observes with a hiccup, followed by a frown, followed by a hand on her abdomen.

“No one asked for your opinion, Dress Barn,” Pansy retorts.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Granger says weakly.

Draco sighs.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Pansy continues. “So, I’d fuck Daphne, right, which means that it’s _your_ turn, Daph—and you have to say who _you’d_ fuck, and then give them _their_ fuck, marry, or kill—so—”

“I’d fuck Ron,” Daphne chirps. “Mm. _Yeah_. Ron. And—um—‘kill’, I guess?”

Blaise grimaces while Theo shifts uncomfortably from his spot on the floor.

“Fuck yeah, babe,” Weasley says, grinning as he finishes off his beer and crushes the can with his bare hands. “So, most of y’all seem like alright dudes. Except Malfoy. Fuck you, bro. You suck. I’d totally kill you. And—you get—‘marry’. Yeah.”

Draco sniffs.

“Fascinating. I’d marry Hermione, of course—or, I would if she didn’t believe it was an outdated, patriarchal institution of social slavery, at least. Who’s your ‘fuck’, sweetheart?”

“Don’t _call_ me that,” Granger whimpers. “God. I’d fuck—I don’t know—Harry, I guess? And—‘marry’, Harry.”

Pansy stiffens.

“You wouldn’t even know what to _do_ with him, Louisa May,” she hisses.

Potter scrunches his nose up.

“Little incestuous there, ‘Mione, but…I’d marry Pansy, and…‘kill’? Yeah, babe?”

Pansy smirks.

Blaise feels his stomach _literally plummet with dread._

“You know, this isn’t very _lightning fast_ , is it?” Pansy muses sweetly. “Let’s fix that. I’d kill Draco. ‘Fuck’, sugarplum. Go.”

Draco sneers.

“Fuck Daphne. ‘Marry’.”

“Marry _Ron_. ‘Marry’?”

“Aw, right back at you, babe. ‘Kill’?”

Daphne squeals.

“Um—kill Hermione? Sorry. ‘Fuck’.”

“Fuck Blaise. ‘Kill’.”

Blaise snorts.

“Kill _Pansy_. ‘Fuck’.”

“Fuck _Theo_. ‘Marry’.”

“Uh. Marry Hermione? ‘Kill’?”

Granger groans.

“Kill _Pansy_. ‘Marry’.”

“Marry Blaise. Theo. ‘Fuck’.”

“Theo,” Blaise blurts out at the _exact same time_ that Theo says, “Blaise.”

And then—

And then there’s several seconds of _deafeningly_ awkward silence.

From the corner of the room, Blaise can hear Granger moaning about how she’s _never going to drink again,_ and then the slurring, slightly off-key sound of Draco attempting to sing her a lullaby. On Theo’s other side, Pansy’s breath is coming in faintly wheezing gasps as her cheeks puff out—she’s either going into anaphylactic shock from the all the shitty beer she’s been drinking, or she’s physically reigning in a whole fucking _fuck-load_ of admittedly understandable hysteria.

Blaise, though—

Blaise is staring at Theo.

Theo is staring right back.

“I thought you were straight,” they both say—and, again, it’s at the _exact same time_ , because God has clearly forsaken Blaise, probably due to all the fantasizing Blaise does about sodomizing Theo, like, _on the regular_. “You—wait—really?”

Theo’s gaze drops to Blaise’s mouth.

Blaise licks his lips.

The room abruptly feels a hell of a lot smaller, and hotter, and—

“Yeah,” Theo says, voice low. “I’m—yeah.”

And that’s when Pansy just _completely loses her shit_.

 

* * *

 

**_(to)_ **

****

Blaise kicks everyone out.

“But, wait, we didn’t finish the game—” Pansy is officially laughing so hard that she can’t even fucking _stand_ , and if it hadn’t been for Potter’s allegedly keen lacrosse reflexes, she probably would’ve already fallen over.

“Fuck, marry, kill,” Blaise says, leaning sideways into the doorjamb and trying not to notice Daphne dry-humping Weasley against the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. “I’d fuck Theo—which we’ve established, thanks—and I’d marry Weasley—because he’s honestly pretty supportive in a crisis and _way too good for you, Daphne_ —and then I’d kill all the rest of you fuckers because you’re nosy and interfering and _actual terrible human beings_. There. Game over. Get out.”

Potter coughs as Pansy causes them to topple off-balance and run into the building-wide bulletin board; a flyer for an upcoming battle of the bands flutters to the floor, and Potter fumbles for his wallet with the smarmiest little grin Blaise has ever fucking seen on a guy whose last name wasn’t Malfoy.

“Hey, man, you should really—here, just—” Potter barely manages to choke out through his chortling before he throws a foil-wrapped condom right at Blaise’s chest. “ _Wrap it before you tap it_!”

Pansy shrieks, and then giggles, and then wisely grabs Potter’s wrist and drags him down the hall.

“Have fun, sugarplum!” she calls out to Blaise. “You can thank me tomorrow!”

Blaise scowls at the condom Potter had tossed him.

_Trojan._

_Ribbed for **Her** Pleasure._

Blaise scoffs.

God, what a _dick_.

 

* * *

 

**_(fuck)_ **

****

The door closes with a resounding click of its industrial-strength lock.

Blaise takes a deep, fortifying breath, brain still struggling to connect the dots between the Theo he’s lived with for the past four weeks—corn-fed cute and farm-fresh sweet and so patently, obliviously, _unbelievably_ fucking innocent—and the Theo who had just pretty thoroughly eye-fucked him in front of all their closest friends.

It’s weird.

It’s _awesome_.

Blaise finally turns around, unable to hold back a slight smirk at the sight of Theo sitting on _Blaise’s_ bed, a worn black cowboy hat resting on his lap, broad shoulders stretching at the seams of his red and white checkered flannel—and Blaise stares for a second too long at the hat, wondering if his dick’s clear and present interest in it is a _kink_ thing or a _Theo_ thing—

“Ever been to a rodeo?” Theo asks, the tip of one slender, _clever_ finger tracing the rim of the hat.

“Uh,” Blaise replies, mouth suddenly really fucking dry and cheeks suddenly really fucking _warm_ —he’s lucky, he thinks, that his skin’s way too dark for an actual blush to be visible. “No? Have you?”

“I’m from Texas,” Theo says, like that’s an answer.

“Red state,” Blaise supplies helpfully.

“ _Rodeo_ state,” Theo corrects, lips twitching.

“Oh. That’s—relevant?”

Theo flips the hat over in his hands and shoots Blaise a _wicked_ fucking grin—and Blaise takes it for the invitation it _really obviously is_ , adjusting the bulge in his corduroys before he approaches Theo with slow, easy steps.

“Depends,” Theo hedges.

Blaise flicks his tongue over the ridge of his front teeth.

“On?”

Theo scoots down the bed and gets to his knees—and Blaise had raised the mattress high enough off the ground that this leaves him almost eye-level with Theo’s fucking _crotch_ , and since his stupid fucking _skinny jeans_ fit him like a fucking second skin—there’s a lot for Blaise to look at, and a lot for Blaise to process, and it’s just _a lot_ , probably too much, probably too soon, but his mouth is watering and his cock is hard and holy fucking _shit_ does he want a fucking _taste_.

“ _On_ ,” Theo murmurs, reaching out to drop the hat on Blaise’s head, “whether or not you’re ready to saddle up, cowboy.”

Blaise quirks a brow and nods, bringing his hand up to toy with Theo’s oversized silver belt buckle.

“I’m going to suck your dick now, alright? And I’m going to do it while I wear this hat.”

And then he’s unzipping Theo’s jeans and pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of his pelvis and yanking down his underwear and—

Yeah.

He wants more than a fucking taste.

 

* * *

 

**_(after)_ **

****

The next morning, Granger’s normally vibrant caramel skin is pale and wan and dry, and she’s wincing pitifully at the stream of sunlight that’s filtering in through the narrow dining hall window. Draco’s spoon-feeding her from a bowl of plain oatmeal, a ridiculous pair of dark-lensed, round-framed Tom Ford sunglasses perched on the end of his nose.

At the opposite end of the table, Pansy is stretched out on one of the bench seats, flat on her back with her head in Potter’s lap and her forearm pressed into her eyes; she’s in teal velour sweatpants and one of Potter’s grass-stained lacrosse jerseys. Meanwhile, Potter is absently running one hand through her hair, scratching at her scalp, and clutching a mug of steaming black coffee with the other, gaze almost comically hopeful as he blinks down at it.

At the buffet, Daphne is freshly showered in sleek grey yoga pants and a flamingo-pink tank top, cheerfully humming the chorus of a fucking _Katy Perry song_ as she picks through a platter of cantaloupe; similarly, Weasley is drowning three plate-sized Belgian waffles in butter, maple syrup, scrambled eggs, and links of breakfast sausage, navy mesh basketball shorts hanging low on his hips, bright white iPod earbuds slung around his neck like a scarf.

“Oh, hey,” Weasley says, stuffing a piece of thick-cut bacon into his mouth as he notices Blaise and Theo standing in the doorway. “You guys are finally up. Good night?”

Blaise wonders if he’s imagining the hushed air of highly expectant silence that descends on their friends’ table as the not-so-innocuous meaning of Weasley’s question registers. He doesn’t think he is.

So—

He shrugs.

He offers Weasley an enigmatic half-smile.

He takes a step forward, into the room.

“Yeah, man,” he replies, hooking his pinky through Theo’s. “Best night ever.”

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> [come join me in hell](http://www.provocative-envy.tumblr.com)


End file.
